


Merrily on High

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Caroling, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hidden Talents, Hogsmeade, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:20:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5434592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neville takes part in a new (to him) tradition, discovers a new talent, and makes some new friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merrily on High

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DelphiPsmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelphiPsmith/gifts).



> Written for the 2014 Hoggywarty exchange to the prompts "Someone organizes a caroling party to go door-to-door in Hogsmeade" and "Neville's first staff Christmas party", originally posted [here](http://hoggywartyxmas.livejournal.com/58386.html). There's a background mention of Snape being alive, so slightly AU. 
> 
> Thanks so much to Kelly for beta-reading!

There was a truth universally acknowledged in the Hogwarts staff room, that a single teacher in possession of no children must be in want of an invitation to join the Hogsmeade carol singers on Christmas Eve.  
  
At least that was how Professor McGonagall -- Neville thought he would never be able to think of her as 'Minerva', no matter that they were colleagues now -- explained it to him, rather drily, while stressing that there was no obligation whatsoever to participate. But Pomona had heard him humming to himself in the greenhouses (Neville was somewhat mortified at learning this) and there was no doubt that he could carry a tune. And Heavens knew they could always do with more male voices, especially now that Albus... Professor McGonagall's thin lips had quivered for a moment, though her gaze remained as clear and composed as ever. "He would have wanted the tradition to go on," she said.  
  
"I didn't even know there _was_ a tradition," Neville said meekly over his cup of tea. The idea of the teachers walking from house to house singing carols in exchange for treats was both charming and unreal. Attempting to picture it was like trying to picture one of Luna's creatures: elements that seemed reasonable and familiar on their own turned bizarre and vaguely terrifying when combined, like feathers on a sheep. It made his head hurt much the same way as whenever he tried imagining his Gran as a young woman. But, he reasoned, if Professor McGonagall could invite him for tea in her office and speak to him as an equal, which in and of itself was hard enough to grasp, then surely joining her knocking on doors throughout Hogsmeade on Christmas Eve would not be such a huge step. "We students never knew."  
  
"Teachers are quite good at keeping our sordid rituals to ourselves, when we want to." Her small laugh made him look up in surprise -- but of course she did have a sense of humour; he'd known that already. "We are not subject to the curfew, after all! Here..." She handed him a sheaf of scores. "Practice on Monday night, Neville. Don't be late."  
  
"No, Professor." The title slipped from him before he could think better of it, but she gracefully let it pass without comment.  
  
As he accepted the scores and got to his feet, he hesitated for a moment. "If I may ask," he said tentatively, "who else is going? Is Professor Sn-- er -- Severus going to be there?"  
  
" _Severus?_ "   
  
McGonagall stared at him for a moment, then let out another laugh, heartier and louder than before. It took Neville by surprise, but just as he was beginning to feel ill at ease, he met her eyes and saw nothing but genuine mirth.  
  
"Between you and me, Mr Longbottom," she said as she went with him to the door, "that would be a terrible idea. I have nothing but respect for the man, but this is Christmas, not Hallowe'en."  
  
  
*  
  
  
The following Monday, a week before Christmas, Neville found himself back in Professor McGonagall's rooms, rather nervous, though he had made sure to look up a sightreading spell that had helped him practice. Apart from the hostess and himself, there were Professors Flitwick, Sinistra, and Sprout, as well as Poppy Pomfrey and (this surprised him) Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, whom he remembered from the times she had covered Hagrid's lessons, as well as from a rather disastrous tea party at his Gran's years back, where Trevor had managed to hide amidst the scones. Thankfully, she had never brought up this event in his presence, and she welcomed him as amicably as the others.   
  
"We are in dire need of male voices, as you can see," Professor Sprout said with a smile. "This year, Poppy was all set to do the bass alone."  
  
"Oh, do shut up," snorted Madam Pomfrey, who was wearing a knee-length red-and-green dress and looking very festive indeed.   
  
"Now, now," said Professor McGonagall majestically, waving for them to quieten down. "We aren't going to do anything complicated anyway, but there _is_ safety in numbers. These carols are all arranged for two or three voices, and I think that is more than enough for our current level of ambition. Filius?"   
  
Everyone straightened. Next to Neville, Professor Flitwick cleared his throat, then did a small flicker of his wand close to his ear. He listened carefully and then hummed the opening note before directing them to begin.   
  
" _Ding-dong merrily on high: in Heav'n the bells are ringing!_ "  
  
They sang through the first verse without a hitch, but the chorus, where the tune split up into three different voices, made them all stumble. Professor Flitwick clapped his hands and asked to hear each voice separately.   
  
Neville blushed when the turn came to the deepest voice. "It's just you and me doing the male voice, Professor."  
  
"Filius, Neville, Filius," Professor Flitwick scolded him gently. "Let's sing it together, shall we?"  
  
Again he felt like a stupid little boy, being asked to perform some sort of difficult spell in front of everyone. But Professor Flitwick's eyes were kind and warm; there was no mockery in them, and when he glanced sideways, all he saw was encouraging faces. So he swallowed his embarrassment and listened to Flitwick sing through the chorus first; then, at his signal, they sang through it again, together. Neville kept his eyes stiffly on the score all the way, but to his own amazement he did not stumble once, and his voice was perfectly in tune with the professor's.   
  
When they were done, Flitwick smiled at him. "Excellent, Neville! I did not know that you had such a good voice."  
  
"Er," Neville said, feeling his face grow hot. In truth he had not known that either, but from the murmurs of agreement all around him, he realised his voice could not be that bad. "Thank you very much."  
  
"Yes, indeed," chimed in Pomona Sprout, who, Neville remembered, was responsible for his being there. "Did you ever take singing lessons?"  
  
The thought of his Gran making him do such a thing was almost more absurd than the prospect of going caroling with the teachers had been. "Can't say I did, no."  
  
"What a shame," she mused, looking at him thoughtfully. Neville got the feeling she was about to say something about his Gran, and was relieved when Flitwick clapped his hands once more.  
  
They sang through the repertoire, some of which consisted of traditional carols and some of which was original lyrics set to familiar tunes, such as 'O Butterbeer' and 'Away with a Portkey'. After that, Professor McGonagall summoned mulled wine and hot cocoa for everyone, and there was friendly chatting for a while, and then Professor Flitwick had them practice some more, before clapping his hands and announcing a new and final rehearsal next Monday -- the night before Christmas Eve.  
  
"It's not that we are so terribly ambitious, Neville," McGonagall said to him as he took his leave. "But it gives us an excuse to have some fun together, don't you think?"  
  
And where once Neville would have been utterly perplexed at the idea of Professor McGonagall doing such a thing as having fun, much less doing it in his company, he now could not help but utterly agree.   
  
  
*  
  
  
Christmas Eve had them gathered at the end of the main street of Hogsmeade around six o' clock. There had been a light snowfall, covering roofs of the village in a white blanket which was offset by the festive colouring of the myriads of decorations and the dark, starlit sky above.   
  
"I'm too old for this wassailing," Madam Grubbly-Plank mumbled, stamping her feet. "Next year I'm buying my own drinks and staying at home."  
  
"Your saying that is a tradition in its own right, Wilhelmina." McGonagall waved her wand over her boots, then did the same for the rest of the group; Neville almost sighed as the warmth seeped into his feet. "Better now?"   
  
"Whatever it takes to make you do that, Min," Grubbly-Plank said with a gruff chuckle. "So who are we visiting first? I'm voting for Rosmerta and her ale."  
  
As the group approached the Three Broomsticks, Neville again began to feel a little uncomfortable. The fact that he would be singing in front of strangers -- or worse, not-quite-strangers -- was something he had so far avoided thinking of, but now the prospect was becoming disturbingly real. If they were supposed to walk into the pub itself and sing in front of all the patrons... Neville swallowed, suddenly wishing he had taken the early Portkey home to Gran, promises to McGonagall and Flitwick be damned.   
  
Thankfully, the others headed towards the back of the pub and soon they were greeted by a smiling Madam Rosmerta, who opened the door wearing a fur-trimmed dress and a twig of jolly in her hair. "Why, hullo there!"  
  
"Hullo, my dear!" cried Professor Flitwick, taking a step forward to stand in front of the others. "Season's greetings to you." He pointed his wand to his ear for the tune-spell, then turned towards the others. "'Deck the halls', everyone!"  
  
"I already did that," Rosmerta joked. But she listened to them sing three verses and applauded enthusiastically afterwards. Then she had her house elves fetch them ale and mulled wine, the latter of which was much stronger than Neville had anticipated. As they made their way to the next house, he felt rather lightheaded, but his worries were dispelled when Flitwick performed a sobriety spell on everyone before they stepped onto the porch of the Hog's Head.   
  
Aberforth raised both his bushy eyebrows upon seeing Neville. "So you got roped into this band of old beggars, did you?"   
  
"He's our mascot," Grubbly-Plank boomed, with a slap to his back that was so forceful Neville wondered if Flitwick's spell had somehow missed her. "And a damn good singer, too. Let him hear you, Neville!"   
  
Neville winced, but Flitwick came to his rescue by clearing his voice loudly, and soon the group solemnly atoned 'While Aberforth Watched his Goats' (lyrics affectionately rewritten by Grubbly-Plank, leaving Aberforth to huff in his beard though looking secretly pleased). Afterwards they all got a beaker of Aberforth's special Christmas punch, which reminded Neville a bit of some of his own failed attempts at potions. Not wanting to hurt Aberforth's feelings, he managed to down it all and was rewarded with another slap to his back, this time from the host himself, and an invitation to come back Boxing Day 'for the real stuff'.   
  
By the time they had reached the end of the main street, Neville wasn't feeling nervous anymore. He was part of the group, same as any of them; everywhere people seemed to genuinely like their singing, and Neville, for his part, could not help enjoying the easy banter between the teachers, their gentle jokes that sometimes included him, for which he found himself grateful. As they approached the last cottage, he glanced sideways at his colleagues, and felt a warmth in his chest that was not wholly unfamiliar: it reminded him of Dumbledore's Army, of being one amongst equals, of being appreciated.   
  
And although this was nothing like fighting Death Eaters, nothing like being tortured or punished, the feeling of acceptance and inclusion was the same, and when McGonagall gave him a small smile as they neared the door, and muttered, "Ready for the last one?" Neville had to swallow, as tongue-tied as when he had been a shy little boy, but not with fear this time, only emotion.   
  
"Who lives here?" he managed at last, taking a deep breath and trying to shake off his sudden sentimentality.   
  
"Here? Why, that's me," said Grubbly-Plank with a grin. "But this year I have an old friend visiting me, and she's promised us a treat if we sing for her."   
  
Neville nodded and went to stand between Flitwick and Madam Pomfrey as McGonagall knocked. It took only a few seconds for the door to open.   
  
" _Gran?_ "   
  
Indeed his grandmother was standing on the threshold, the light behind her so bright he could not make out her expression. Neville's heart fell into his stomach, before anxiety shot it back up. What was she doing here? Was she Grubbly-Plank's friend? Of course, he knew that they knew each other, and that his Gran had a social life of sorts, but to think he and Gran were now moving in the same circles, as it were... His mind was reeling, and he would probably have said something awfully stupid if Flitwick hadn't chosen that moment to give them the tune to 'Ding-Dong Merrily On High.'  
  
As they sang, he tried not looking at his Gran again, lest he should fail his tune. And strangely enough, for the couple of minutes the song lasted, he felt himself relax; there was only the music to care about, only that one thing to set free and let soar. His Gran's presence, intimidating and formidable, could not change that. They sang all the verses, and he did not falter, only concentrated on the way his voice blended with the others into a carefree and joyful whole that rose through the cold brittle evening like a fire catching.   
  
Afterwards, there was a moment of silence before -- again Neville was taken aback -- a small dry applause erupted. His Gran was clapping, which was something he'd never heard her do before, and then she stepped forward so that the light from the faeries above the door fell on her face and he could see her tremulous smile.   
  
"Well," she said, and her voice trembled a little too. "That was something indeed."  
  
"Told you so," Sprout said proudly. Then, turning to Neville, "I'm really sorry, Neville dear, but I could not resist the idea of letting your grandmother hear you sing, and neither could Wilhelmina. So we thought we'd invite her here, and since she and Will are old friends, Will invited you both to spend Christmas here -- isn't that right, Will?"   
  
"Indeed she did, very generously," said Gran before Grubbly-Plank could answer. "And I accepted, too." For a second she looked slightly baleful, as if she realised that Neville might have chosen differently. Briskly, she continued, "You don't mind it, I trust? London is awful at this time anyway, and when you were little you always pestered me about outings during holidays. I know you're of age now, and that you might even have better things to do than staying with me, but --"   
  
"Oh, Gran, you know I was coming home anyway," Neville said, realising only a second too late that he had interrupted her. He continued quickly, "And I'm very thankful for your invitation, Ma-- er -- Wilhelmina!"  
  
"I'll expect you to entertain us with singing in return," she chuckled, then slapped Gran's shoulder (Neville couldn't hold back a nervous giggle at the sight, nor at the way his Gran jumped). "Did you get eggnog and the mulled wine ready, Gussie? And the mince pies? I'm hungry."   
  
"I'm your guest, not your house elf," Gran grumbled, but then she smiled again, glancing at Neville, and nodded to the others. "You'd better come inside, it's all ready."   
  
This had been a strange night, Neville thought as he followed them all inside. First the unexpected joy of feeling like an equal amongst the teachers, then the shock of having to sing in front of his Gran, who had not only listened but _applauded_ , and now the prospect of spending Christmas in Hogsmeade with Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, who wasn't afraid of slapping his Gran on the shoulder or calling her Gussie... It was all new, still hard to grasp, but he could not forget that warm feeling of safety and companionship from earlier; nor could he forget his Gran's applause or her shaky smile.   
  
As he took off his cloak, Neville found himself next to McGonagall -- Minerva, as he really should start calling her. "Well, then," she said as she hung up her scarf next to his. "As far as traditions go, it's not the worst one, is it?"   
  
"No, Pr... I mean, no, Minerva," he said, and found he could look her in the eye and that his grin was as wide as hers.


End file.
